Home Care
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Dean gets sick at the Bat Cave in 2016. Sam gets sick in Wyoming in 2026. They take care of each other. Future!fic, part of my Wyoming series. Also, Bat Cave!fic, spoilers through season 8. No slash intended. Loving nonsexual/nonromantic life partnership between Sam and Dean, allusions to Dean&Cas passionate friendship.


AN: Felt like mixing it up a little bit. This is both a Wyoming and a Bat Cave fic.

No slash intended. Loving nonsexual/nonromantic life partnership between Sam and Dean. Passionate friendship between Dean and Cas (alluded).

* * *

Home Care

* * *

Wyoming

2026

* * *

A snowy draft licks into the house after Dean when he comes through the front door, slamming it shut quick behind him. He leaves wet foot prints on the floor as he takes off his heavy winter jacket and hangs it up on the coat rack attached to the wall. The dog doesn't appear to greet him, which is unusual. "Sam?" he calls out. His brother's truck is out front, right where Dean saw it this morning. Sam should've had a shift at the hardware store, but maybe Dean didn't listen when his brother mentioned having the day off.

When Sam doesn't answer, Dean makes his way down the long corridor to the back of the house, rubbing his cold hands as he goes and blowing into them cupped. He's dressed in his auto shop jumpsuit, the one with extra lining for winter, a long-sleeved tee and tank underneath it too, and his snow-ready work boots. But he still wants to sit in front of a fire.

"Sam?" he says, poking his face into his brother's room.

Sam's in bed. The dog lifts his head and looks at Dean with a little squeak, lying near Sam's legs. Sam turns his head toward the door and looks at Dean. "Hey."

"What's going on? Are you okay?" Dean's crossing the room to Sam's bed without waiting for an answer. He instinctively lays a hand on Sam's forehead. "You're hot."

"I'm sick," says Sam, looking away. He's got that pale face, rosy cheeks thing going on. The beginnings of dark circles under his eyes.

Dean sits on the bed. "Since when?"

"This morning? Last night? I don't know. I felt funny when I woke up to my alarm and by the time you left for work, it was pretty clear I should stay home."

"Why didn't you call me? Or Cas?"

"And say what? Come hover at my bedside? It's not a big deal, Dean. I just need some rest and Tylenol."

Dean shakes his head. "Friggin' hypocrite," he says. "You're Florence Nightingale every time I sneeze, but you don't want to let me return the favor when you're actually sick. Did you take something for the fever?"

"Yeah," says Sam. "Not due again for another hour."

"Did you eat today?"

"Not hungry."

"Sam. You know better."

"I'm not exactly in the mood to cook, Dean."

"We got cans of soup in the pantry. I'll go dump one on the stove." Dean stands up and starts to leave, then pauses in the doorway. "I'll be right back with some water. You're probably dehydrated."

"Hey, Dean."

"Yeah?"

"It's snowing, isn't it?"

"For the last few hours."

"Where's Cas?"

"Next door, I think. The daycare probably called a snow-day, just in case."

"You should go check on him," says Sam. "If he's in town, he might be better off waiting out the rest of the snow."

"I'll call him," Dean says. "But first, I'm taking care of you."

He disappears back down the corridor, boots sounding heavy on the floor.

* * *

Lebanon, KS

2016

* * *

Sam wakes up without knowing why. His digital alarm clock reads 4:03, numbers glowing red in the pitch darkness of his room. His door, as always, is cracked open just enough to let him hear Dean if his brother calls out for him. Sam lies still for a minute and doesn't hear anything. He doesn't remember dreaming, so it can't be a nightmare that woke him. He pulls the sheets and blanket open and gets out of bed, stepping into his slippers. Pokes his head out the door and looks down either side of the corridor. Dark, empty, and quiet. Sam crosses the hall to Dean's room and looks in.

His brother's bed is empty.

If they were in a motel room somewhere, Sam would immediately worry. But the Bat Cave is home, or as close to it as they're going to get, and Dean could be anywhere else within its confines, doing some totally innocuous thing.

Sam heads down the long corridor for the communal bathroom at the end. In the total silence of the Bat Cave, he can hear a noise coming from there. The closer he gets, the more clear it becomes: retching.

Dean's on his knees in front of one of the stall-enclosed toilets. Socked feet, no shoes, white t-shirt and pajama pants. The tiles must be cold underneath him. The whole bathroom's drafty. Sam flips one of the light switches. A third of the bulbs come on. "Dean?" he says.

Dean spits into the toilet bowl. He's panting. When he speaks, it comes out more like a groan. "Sam. Go back to sleep."

Sam stands in the stall doorway. "How long have you been sick?"

"You mean how long have I been puking up my guts?"

"No, I mean how long you've felt like crap."

"I was fine when I went to bed."

Sam rolls his eyes. "_Fine_ doesn't mean anything coming from you." He goes to one of the big cupboards attached to the wall next to a row of sinks and retrieves one of the plastic cups he stored inside. Fills it with tap water and brings it to Dean, just as his brother dry heaves.

"Dean," Sam says gently, holding out the cup next to Dean's face.

Dean moans, head down on his fingers and hand resting on the edge of the toilet seat. "I'll just throw it back up," he says.

"You have to stay hydrated."

Dean takes the cup. He washes out his mouth with the first gulp, drinks the rest of the water. Sam tosses the empty cup in the waste bin. He leans down and touches the back of his brother's neck. Warm and sweaty. Dean just stays put with his head down on his hand, breathing labored.

"You ready to go back to your room?" Sam asks.

"I dunno," Dean says. "Gimme a minute."

Sam squats on his haunches, cramped in the space his brother leaves for him. He's partially out of the stall, the door wide open. He starts to rub Dean's back up and down between the shoulder blades. "Don't worry," Sam says. "I'll take care of you."

* * *

Wyoming

2026

* * *

Sam drinks the water Dean brings him and takes another dose of Tylenol Cold. His only symptoms so far are fever and fatigue. Dean hopes it doesn't get any worse. He heats up a can of chicken noodle soup and spoon feeds half a bowl to Sam because Sam doesn't want to eat and doesn't want to feed himself. Dean doesn't complain, just sits in a chair next to Sam's bed and moves the spoon back and forth from the bowl to his little brother's mouth. He remembers taking care of Sam when they were kids, not much different than this. Both men are quiet for several minutes, as Dean feeds Sam, until Dean decides that half a bowl is enough for now. Sam looks like he's teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, face flushed. Dean leaves the spoon in the soup bowl and moves the tray off of Sam, onto the dresser. He feels Sam's forehead again and combs his fingers back through Sam's hair. "All right," he murmurs. "Time for you to sleep, Sammy."

"Bathroom," Sam murmurs.

Dean helps him out of bed and escorts him next door to the big master bathroom they share. He waits in the hall for Sam to come out, then follows closely as Sam trudges back into bed. "I'll be right back, okay?" Dean says quietly once Sam's lying down again.

Sam only replies with a noise in his throat, eyes already shut.

Dean calls Castiel in the kitchen, peeking outside at the thin layer of snow that's settled on the ground and the flakes continuing to fall silently. Clean white.

"Hello?" Castiel says. "Dean?"

"Cas," Dean says. "Hey. Are you home?"

"Yes, I've been home since early this afternoon. Where are you?"

"Next door. I just wanted to know where you were. Sam thought maybe you were still in town and oughta stay there until after the snow stopped."

"The daycare closed earlier than usual because of the weather forecast. Is everything okay?"

Dean doesn't know what gave him away: the sound of his voice or the weird sixth sense Castiel has about him. "Sam's not feeling well. He's running a fever. I'm sure it's nothing serious, but I feel bad about leaving him home alone all day."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Nah, I'm pretty sure all he needs is sleep, fluids, and medicine," says Dean, scratching the back of his head.

"Do you want me to keep you company?" Castiel asks.

Dean thinks about it. "Sure."

"Give me a few minutes, and I'll be right over."

"See you soon." Dean hangs up and leaves his phone on the kitchen table. He fills a glass of water at the skinny filtered faucet next to the sink—water from the well—and drinks the whole thing. He looks down at himself and realizes he's still wearing all of his layers.

Dean crosses the house again quietly, closing the door to his bedroom before changing. Winter jumpsuit folded over the arm of his chair for tomorrow, boots left by the door. He keeps his tank and long-sleeved t-shirt on, adds a pair of his worn-in jeans, steps into his slippers. The house is comfortably warm, but he decides to build a fire in the living room anyway.

First, he goes into the master bathroom and soaks a wash cloth with cold water for Sam. He sits at Sam's bedside again and cools his brother's neck with the cloth first, holding it to each side for a minute or two. Sam's sweating, and Dean wonders if he should pull the blanket off of him and leave just the sheet. Sam stirs, turns his head toward Dean, and says his brother's name softly.

"I'm here, Sammy," Dean says. He lays the folded wash cloth across his brother's forehead. "Cas is coming."

Sam mumbles incoherently, more asleep than awake. Dean slips his hand into Sam's and rubs his thumb over a tiny spot on Sam's skin. He hears the front door open and close: Cas.

* * *

Lebanon, KS

2016

* * *

Dean keeps the water down, and Sam silently says thank you for that, as he helps his big brother back to bed. Dean sits, almost as if he's afraid he'll have to lunge for the wastebasket before he can safely lie down and go back to sleep. Sam stands in front of him, one hand on Dean's shoulder. "Do you want to change into a different shirt?"

Dean shakes his head.

Sam feels his forehead. Warm but not enough to tell if Dean's got a fever without a thermometer. "Anything hurt?"

"No," Dean says, voice husky and miserable. "Just nauseous."

"Could be a stomach virus. They don't last long. I'm going to make you some tea. You want to lie down?"

Dean doesn't answer right away. "Yeah," he says.

Sam eases him down on the bed and pulls the waste bin over for easy access. "I'll be right back, Dean." He pets Dean's belly a little. "Five minutes."

More like fifteen. Boil the water in their electric kettle; mix loose leaf tea for Dean's stomach: peppermint, chamomile, ginger; fill a mug with the water and steep the herbs in a strainer. Microwave an herbal heating pad until it's almost hot. Grab a water bottle from the fridge just in case. Sam throws the pad over his shoulder, carries the mug in one hand and the bottle in the other.

Dean's still awake when he returns. He doesn't look good.

"All right, Dean," Sam says, dropping the water bottle on the bed and taking the pad down from his shoulder. "Can you sit up and drink this tea for me?"

Dean pushes himself into a low seated position, upper back against the headboard. Sam hands him the mug—"Careful, it's still pretty hot"—and slips the pad underneath Dean's t-shirt, pressing it to Dean's belly. "Let's see if this helps," Sam says, hoping. He shies away from over the counter medication now, after picking up some naturopathy from the MoL library and the Native American friends he and Dean have made in Kansas over the last few years. Every once in a while, Dean will tease him, calling him "Doctor Winchester." Sam secretly likes it.

Dean sips at his tea slowly at first, then takes larger swallows as it cools off. Sam sits next to him on the bed, watching and waiting. Soon as the mug's empty, Dean sets it on the night table and sinks down the bed onto his back. He looks relieved.

"Any better?" Sam says.

"A little," says Dean, eyes already closed. He keeps the pad on his middle.

"You want anything else? Think you can sleep through the morning?"

"I hope so."

Sam's feeling bold. He strokes his brother's hair with one hand. Dean, rather than complaining, hums in appreciation. Maybe they're going soft. Maybe domesticity's slowly scraping away at their badass quotient. But they seem to care less and less the longer they live in the Bat Cave.

"Sam, would you…."

"Stay?"

"I don't think I'm contagious."

"Of course not. And yeah, I'll stay."

Sam gets into bed next to Dean, and they maneuver around without discussion, so that Sam's lying on his back with Dean's head pillowed on his shoulder and hot against his side, Sam's thick arm curled around his big brother. The heating pad's sandwiched between them. Sam peels the blanket off of himself and leaves the sheet.

After lying still with his eyes closed for a few minutes, he turns his head and kisses Dean's hairline.

* * *

Wyoming

2026

* * *

Castiel makes dinner for himself and Dean, while Dean sits in Sam's room and watches over his brother. It's only been a few hours since he got home, and the fever doesn't show any signs of breaking. Dean's going to re-take Sam's temperature again pretty soon. He's changed the wash cloth once already. Sam doesn't seem to have any other symptoms; it isn't the flu or strep throat. The hunter part of Dean's brain almost wants to search Sam's body for an infected wound, but Sam hasn't hurt himself like that in a long time. Dean would know about it if Sam had.

Castiel comes in with one of the relief pads the boys keep in their store of medical supplies. It's cold when Dean's takes it from him.

"Good idea!" Dean says.

Cas smiles a little. "I put in the freezer. I hope it's not too cold."

"Feels about right." Dean looks at Sam. "Hope it doesn't wake him up." He pulls open the sheet, lifts his brother's t-shirt, and lays the cold pad on Sam's hot belly.

Sam inhales sharply, then makes a long humming noise of relief. His eyes remain closed.

"Does he seem any better?" Castiel asks.

"No," says Dean, matching the angel's low tone. "Not yet. But not a whole lot of time's gone by. You want any help in the kitchen?"

Castiel, who's standing at the foot of the bed, looks from Dean to Sam and back again. "I've got it under control. You want to stay with him. You should stay."

"Let me know if you change your mind."

Castiel nods and starts to walk out.

"Hey, Cas."

The angel stops in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Do me a favor and get a water bottle for Sam?"

"Of course."

While Castiel's gone, Dean leans forward and strokes the top of Sam's head, then rests his hand there and moves his thumb over a spot of Sam's forehead near his hairline. The cloth is damp but more lukewarm than cold. Dean will have to refresh it again soon. He looks at his brother's face with the kind of attention he only gives when Sam isn't looking back at him, observing the way Sam's age—forty-three—shows itself in his skin. That ridiculous, thick beard Sam insists on keeping….. Dean's convinced Sam would shed ten years if he shaved it off. Long hair's in a ponytail, probably to help keep Sam cool, but usually the taller Winchester leaves the wild mane loose.

Dean takes the wash cloth off of Sam's forehead and runs his thumb over Sam's eyebrow.

"Dean," Castiel says, standing just inside the door.

Dean looks over his shoulder as he leans back in his chair. Castiel's got that look on his face, slight self-consciousness for interrupting an intimate moment between the brothers. He takes a few steps toward Dean and holds out the water bottle. Dean thanks him, then turns to Sam. He strokes over Sam's head, saying, "Sam? Sammy. Wake up."

Sam frowns in his sleep, shifts his body, eventually opens his eyes. He looks at Dean, as Dean continues to wiggle his fingers against Sam's scalp.

"I want you to drink some water and take more medicine," Dean says. "Come on, sit up."

Sam pushes himself up to lean against the headboard, Dean's hand curled around Sam's bicep. Dean gives him the water bottle and shakes two gel capsules out of the Tylenol Cold container. Sam takes the pills and drinks three quarters of the water bottle. Only when he stops does he notice the cold pad on his stomach. He touches his palm to it, then sees Castiel. "Hey," he says in a small voice.

"Hello, Sam," Castiel says. "How are you feeling?"

"Crappy. Did you make it home okay?"

"Yes, it was fine. Darlene dropped me off before the snow started."

"Do you think you'll want dinner later?" Dean asks his brother.

"I don't know," says Sam. "I'm not hungry now. I just want to sleep."

"Okay."

Sam sinks down to his back, head to his pillow, and breathes.

"If your temperature isn't any lower by the morning, I think we should take you to the clinic," Dean says.

"Not that bad," Sam mumbles, already dozing off.

Dean isn't going to argue with him. He gets up with the wash cloth in hand, leans down and kisses his brother's feverish forehead. When he turns around, Castiel's watching him with a gentle smile on his face.

"Dinner ready?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Castiel says.

"I'll be there in a minute."

Cas nods and heads back to the kitchen.

Dean soaks the wash cloth in cold water again and lays it on Sam.

* * *

Lebanon, KS

2016

* * *

Sam sleeps longer than he means to, but that's usually what happens when he and Dean bunk together. He opens his eyes to find himself pressed up against Dean's back, the two of them on their sides, Sam's arm around Dean's torso. Big brother's still in deep sleep. Sam props himself up on his elbow and looks at Dean's face, keeping his other arm snug around Dean. He lays his hand flat on Dean's heart and feels it beating sluggishly. Dean's body is warm. Sam can't tell if it's too warm.

He looks around the room with sleepy eyes, sees the digital clock on Dean's night table, knows he should get up and make breakfast but sinks down again onto the bed and decides to hold onto Dean for a little while longer. He closes his eyes and relaxes, smelling the subtle scent of his brother on Dean's t-shirt and the skin of Dean's bare neck. He thinks about how grateful he is that Dean can be sick in the Bat Cave instead of some crappy motel room.

When Dean starts to stir, Sam comes to and realizes he fell asleep again. He anticipates Dean turning onto his back, pushing him away on the bed, but just as Sam feels his brother begin to lean into him, Dean stops and settles again. Sam stays where is too, not letting go of Dean even though there's a chance that his older brother will fuss about the cuddling. Maybe Dean's letting it continue because he believes that Sam's asleep….

But then, Dean says in a deep voice: "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam says.

Dean doesn't say another word or try to pull out of Sam's embrace.

"How do you feel?" Sam asks.

"Okay, I think," Dean says. "I don't know. Ask me again once I'm up and around."

"You want to get up now?"

Dean pauses. Then says, "Not yet."

Sam smiles and closes his eyes. He's happy to stay where he is for a while too. He feels Dean's gentle breathing. He clears his mind and becomes present with his brother in this moment, with the memory foam mattress underneath him and the soft sheets and the warm, sinewy firmness of his brother's body against him. "_Dean_," Sam says, drawing out the name, lengthening the _n_. The energy of his brother's name in his mouth is pure love. He doesn't say it because he wants to make conversation. He says it just for the comforting feeling the name gives him.

"Mmm," Dean says.

Sam, smiling, touches his forehead to the base of Dean's neck, where the collar of his t-shirt meets his skin. "Why don't we stay home today and take a break from work? We can watch a movie or something."

No answer at first. Then, the older Winchester says, "Okay."

"Okay," Sam echoes, not entirely conscious. He starts planning Dean's breakfast: peanut butter on toast—for his stomach—and another cup of ginger peppermint chamomile tea, maybe some banana puree with honey to fill him up. Sam's suddenly in the mood to mother Dean the rest of the day: tuck his brother up in a soft blanket on the couch in the TV lounge, let him pick the movies, make breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Dean's sensitive stomach in mind, a steady stream of tea and ginger ale, keep him company all day long and let the books rest for once.

"Hey, Sam."

"Mmm?"

Hesitation. "Never mind."

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Dean, what?"

Another pause. "I was wondering about…. a belly rub."

Sam blinks at the back of Dean's head, a little surprised. "We can try it, if you want," he says.

"If it's too weird—"

"It's just us, Dean."

Dean sighs but Sam can tell he wants a belly rub no matter how embarrassed he might feel about asking. Sam's used to this: having to be totally cool to alleviate some of his brother's self-consciousness, on the rare occasion Dean gets self-conscious. He lets go of Dean and moves away to give him enough space to lie on his back. Dean rolls and meets Sam's gaze, and Sam smiles reassuringly. Dean averts his eyes to the ceiling. Sam inches closer, almost asks Dean if he wants Sam's hand under his shirt or over it but then decides that might embarrass Dean too much.

Sam lays his big hand on Dean's belly, holds it there for a moment to let Dean get comfortable with it, then slowly starts to rub a circle. Dean shuts his eyes—probably helps him feel better about letting his brother do this—and takes a careful breath. Sam rubs steady circles into Dean's belly, hoping it soothes his brother, humbled that Dean trusts him enough to ask him for what he needs. Moments like this have happened between them over the last three years since they started living in the Bat Cave, unexpected shifts in their relationship where they get closer somehow, let their guard down to each other like they should have during all those rough years of Hell and demons and the Apocalypse. Sam isn't sure what's happening between him and his brother or how or why, but he's not making any sudden moves because he's afraid he'll ruin it if he questions it out loud.

He lies down on the bed again, head on the pillow next to Dean's, and continues to rub for a while. Dean doesn't say anything or open his eyes, so Sam stays quiet too. Eventually, Sam stills his hand but lets it rest on Dean's belly. He watches Dean's face, waiting for Dean to speak or look at him or move. But Dean just lies there.

"You good?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Dean says, still not looking at him. "Thank you."

"No problem."

Sam lies still on his side like that for a while, hand on Dean's belly. Dean doesn't push it away.

* * *

Wyoming

2026

* * *

Around nine in the morning, Dean gets out of his bed for the third time since midnight—leaving Castiel asleep behind him—and goes into Sam's room to check on his brother. Sam was still running a fever the last time Dean came in around six. Now, Dean takes the cloth from Sam's forehead and replaces it with his own hand. He can't be sure without using a thermometer, but it seems like Sam's cooler than he was three hours ago. He starts to stroke Sam's hair back over the top of his head, standing at the bedside. "Sam," he says softly. "Sammy."

Sam takes a breath, shifts his body a little bit, then cracks open his eyes. The daylight filtering through the curtains on Sam's window is a dim blue, and Dean wonders if it's overcast outside.

"I want to take your temperature," Dean tells his brother. "I think you might've cooled off finally."

"Okay," Sam says.

Dean picks up the thermometer where he left it on the night table, swirls the mouthpiece around in a bottle of rubbing alcohol, shakes it dry, and slips it in Sam's mouth. He presses the button and waits. The thermometer beeps with a reading after several seconds: 100.2. Not bad. The fever could break by the end of the day, if all goes well. They can forget a trip to the clinic, unless Sam gets worse.

"You want to go back to sleep?" Dean asks.

"Yeah. Tired," Sam says.

"Why don't you drink some water for me, before you pass out?"

"Make it cold."

Dean pads to the kitchen, tightening his robe around himself because the house feels chilly after sleeping in a warm bed next to Cas. He grabs another water bottle out of the fridge and brings it to Sam. Sam drinks most of it and takes another dose of medicine. He rolls onto his belly, hugging a pillow underneath him, and says, "Dean."

"Yeah, Sammy."

"Rub my back?"

Dean sits in the chair next to the bed. "Yeah, okay."

He starts rubbing circles into Sam's upper back, right in the middle. He doesn't go wide enough to cover the whole span because Sam's shoulders are so broad. He sees and feels Sam relax under his touch, muscles releasing tension. Sam's body must remember even more than his mind: Dean rubbing his back like this when they were four and eight years old or five and nine or six and ten. When Sam was sick like this or when we was crying for some reason. Every once in a while, Dean'll remember as if for the first time the way his mom used to touch him whenever he needed to be comforted those first four years of his life, then realizes that all of those childhood memories Sam has of being cared for and coddled are more Dean than anyone, even Dad. The older they got, the more their father left them alone because he figured Dean could handle Sam. At forty-seven years old, Dean's still crossed between feeling cheated out of attentive, full-time parents and feeling glad that having only his brother to cling to helped give them this crazy deep love.

Dean strokes up and down Sam's upper back, closes his eyes and takes a breath. The house is dead quiet. He has a feeling that same quiet's waiting for him outside, the kind of silence that settles over the wilderness when it snows. He hasn't prayed in years, not since Castiel started to live with him and Sam, but every once in a while Dean feels compelled to say a silent thank you—to who, he doesn't know—for this slice of peace he's managed to get for himself and his family. _Thank you that Sam gets to be sick in this house instead of a shitty motel. Thank you that I could take him to a doctor if I needed to. Thank you that he's still here with me. Thank you that he lets me take care of him. _

Dean opens his eyes, leans down, and plants a gentle kiss on his brother's shoulder. "You'll be all right," he says quietly, voice morning-scratchy.

Sam's fever breaks in the afternoon. Dean ushers him into the master bathroom for a shower. Castiel strips Sam's bed and puts on clean sheets, blanket, and pillow cases. Sam comes out of the bathroom looking worlds better and ravenous with hunger. Dean only feeds him what he figures will go easy on Sam's body and pumps his little brother full of water.

Outside, the snow on the ground stays a pure white and shows no sign of melting. Shooter scratches and whines at the front door, until Cas lets him out. The angel stays on the porch as the dog runs around the front yard happy as can be, his barking the only sound for a few miles.

Sam gets back into his bed for a little while only so Dean can lie down behind him, face crushed to the back of Sam's shoulder, arm around Sam's chest.


End file.
